Good Night
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl, short. S1, Ep6 "TS-19." It was a good night. It was the best that most of them had seen in a long time, and they were all celebrating in their own way. (My own "omitted" scene from the episode.)


**AN: This is in a series of "shorts" that I'm doing for entertainment value as I rewatch some episodes. Some of them are interpretations/rewrites of scenes that are in each episode. Some are scenes that never happened but could have in "imagination land". They aren't meant to be taken seriously and they aren't meant to be mind-blowing fic. They're just for entertainment value and allowing me to stretch my proverbial writing muscles. If you find any enjoyment in them at all, then I'm glad. If you don't, I apologize for wasting your time. They're "shorts" or "drabbles" or whatever you want to call them so I'm not worrying with how long they are. Some will be shorter, some will be longer.**

 **This one is partially from the show and partially of my own creation/embellishment. I'm sure I've done this before. I'm sure everyone has done this before. It's not unique and it's not original. But I don't care, I'm doing it again.**

 **I own nothing from the Walking Dead.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Some of them had gotten a little more excited than others. Some of them had drank a little more than others. And now? Some of them were paying for it a little more than others. Around her, Carol could hear the sounds of people thumping around—still trying to find their place to land for the night—and she had already heard the sounds of some who had drank so much that they'd lost their dinner on top of everything else.

But she wasn't denying anyone anything tonight. It was a good night for all of them and they deserved to celebrate it in whatever way seemed best to them.

Sophia was asleep on the little couch across the room from Carol. She was curled up with her doll and she hadn't stirred for some time. Carol sat on her couch with the lamp burning and flipped through the pages of a book while she nursed the glass of wine she'd snuck to her "bedroom".

She wasn't reading the book at all. The act of flipping the pages, though, was somehow soothing. It made everything feel so positively _normal_. It was the first night that Carol was sure she was going to sleep well and sleep soundly. They were safe and protected—there were no Walkers here to threaten them. She didn't have to worry about Sophia because she knew her daughter was safe. But, beyond that, and beyond the celebration that everyone else was enjoying, Carol was going to sleep well because Ed was gone.

Her gut told her that she should feel guilty for being happy about her husband's death. She'd loved him, once upon a time, but she'd mourned the man that she'd loved a long time ago. He'd been gone for a long time. The man that they'd buried—a burial she barely even mentally attended—wasn't for the man that she'd loved. That man, maybe, had never truly existed.

She was going to sleep well tonight because he'd never touch her again. He'd never threaten her again. And she'd never have to worry that, one day, she'd have to kill him for what she feared he might do to her daughter. The meal, tonight, had been the best she could recall eating in a long time. The wine was the best that she'd drank. The shower was the most relaxing and the couch was the most comfortable bed that she could imagine.

Tonight was a good night and they all deserved to celebrate it in the way that they saw fit.

When silence fell around her, Carol realized she was the only one awake. She didn't know what the next day might hold—after all, life in the CDC was new to all of them—but she was sure that she didn't want to be the only one without a proper night's sleep. Sophia would have her up early and out of bed before most of them felt the need to rise. Carol got up to go to the bathroom one last time. She drained her wine glass, put her book on the table with the empty glass, and slipped out to the darkened hallway that was only lit with slivers of light that escaped from the few rooms where lamps still glowed. She found the bathroom, relieved herself in the dark, and washed her hands. She didn't need to look at herself in the mirror. She already knew what she'd find there—evidence of Ed's last attack. The last evidence of his presence that he'd ever leave on her. Soon enough, it would fade entirely too.

When she stepped out into the hallway again, she came unexpectedly face to face with Daryl who was practically hugging a bottle of something like Sophia hugged her doll. Carol's breath caught in her chest.

"I thought everyone was asleep," Carol said as a way of excusing herself—like she needed permission to go to the bathroom.

Daryl looked like he wasn't sure how to escape her—and then he relaxed a little like he wasn't trying.

"You ain't asleep," he said. Carol wasn't certain if it was a statement or a question. His breath smelled like whiskey.

"I'm headed that way," she said. "Do you need some help?" She realized that he was drunk, but she didn't know how drunk he might be, or how affected he might be by the alcohol. He stared at her—he was always staring—and Carol swallowed.

"Goin' to bed," Daryl said, pointing toward his room. He finally moved again to start around her. Carol moved out of his way, pressing herself against the wall, and Daryl swayed. He made harder contact with the wall than he could pretend that he intended and Carol gasped because she half expected him to fall on his face. The wall, though, broke his fall.

"Let me help," Carol offered. She reached and took Daryl's arm. He snatched it away from her, the action seeming more like a knee-jerk reaction than an intended movement, and then the second time she took his arm he let her. He let her, too, take the mostly empty bottle from his grasp. Carol smiled to herself and started toward the room that she knew he was sleeping in. It was a few doors down from her own and she'd seen him lay claim to it earlier. A more obedient drunk than Carol was used to dealing with, Daryl came with her and only twice, in the short distance, swayed her into the hallway wall.

"Don't need any help," he insisted as Carol steered him into the doorway of the room and toward one of the couches.

"I know you don't," Carol agreed, knowing it was always easier to simply agree with a drunk. She put the bottle on one of the tables, out of his reach and out of his line of vision.

"Woulda got here on my own," Daryl insisted.

"You would," Carol said. "But—I needed someone to walk with."

Even in the dim light of the room's small lamp, she could see Daryl's alcohol soaked brain trying to work its way through her puzzle. He wouldn't figure it out—primarily because it didn't make any sense and was only meant to keep him occupied—before he passed out. At least, though, it would keep his brain busy long enough for him to fall asleep. Carol got him to the couch and he practically fell onto it. He was at the point of intoxication where he seemed preprogrammed to sleep wherever he landed, so he immediately made himself comfortable.

Carol grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch and spread it over him before she tucked it around him like she was tucking in Sophia. She would leave him be, asleep probably before she got out the door, and that would be the end of it. She'd return to her room, slip into her own "bed," and the morning would find many of them nursing the worst hangover they'd had since the world had ended.

As she started to straighten up, though, Daryl caught her arm and tugged her toward him. Rougher than he intended to be, more than likely, he almost pulled her on top of him.

"What do you need?" Carol asked softly.

Daryl stared at her in the dim light.

"Sorry," he said.

"Don't be sorry," Carol said. "It wasn't any trouble. Go to sleep. Have a good night."

He shook his head at her.

"Your...husband," Daryl said. "Sorry."

Carol felt a catch in her chest. She shook her head at him.

"No," she said. "No need to be sorry. I'm—not really sorry he's dead." She felt like she could be honest with him. After all, he wouldn't remember this in the morning.

"Weren't what I was talking about," Daryl said, closing his eyes and rubbing his free hand over his face. The one that was holding her arm released its grasp, though from the angle she held her own arm it hung there. "Weren't that..." Daryl said.

But he never finished what he might have meant—even if Carol could guess it—and Carol didn't press him any further.

He was drunk. He needed to sleep as much as any of them did. He was a man who didn't have much to say—especially not kind or gentle words—and Carol didn't want him to say anything that he might regret, for whatever reason, in the morning. This night? It wasn't about regret.

She moved his hand off her arm and moved the other off his face. He was already sleeping the rather deep and ragged sleep of overly intoxicated. She tucked the blankets around him and then, without being entirely sure what drove her to do it or how she might explain it if she were caught, she leaned down and kissed him gently on the forehead before she moved to switch the lamp off.

She left him sleeping and returned to her room as quietly as she'd left it. She was sure that Sophia would sleep all night, but she wanted to be there if the girl should miss her. Carol needed to sleep as well.

Tonight, they would all sleep the best they had in a long while.


End file.
